


skyline to

by kaspe



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Awkwardness, Childhood Friends, Coming Out, Conflict, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Good Parents Maggie & Wentworth Tozier, Kissing in the Rain, M/M, Sexuality Crisis, angst if you squint, best friends become bfs!, bits of my trauma lol, who wouldve guessed it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27709289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaspe/pseuds/kaspe
Summary: But then, he meets Eddie Kaspbrak. Out of the entire First Grade Class of 1988 (he liked to imagine that when an adult was speaking about that, it would have caps. They would usually be so enthusiastic about it, so there must’ve been a special meaning to it), Eddie decides to sit with him.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Kudos: 28





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> i left the fandom in the 2 month span of me writing this and i got horrible burnout HAH! 
> 
> THANK YOU JAE FOR BEING THERE THE WHOLE TIME I WAS WRITING THIS!!! I LOVE YOU!!
> 
> hope u like this

In kindergarten, Richie Tozier didn’t have many friends. Well, maybe when you’re at the ripe age of five, you think everyone is friends with each other. Because it usually happens to be what society is taught, but never truly kept. Share this, be polite, don’t say that. You know, basic manners. However, no one _wanted_ to be Richie's friend. The kid with a smile brighter than the Sun, his antics that caused him injury one way or another, whether it was physical or internal. Richie’s laughter was bright and loud, and answers to questions Mrs. Valdez would ask were quick and always correct. 

Richie would skip around from kid to kid, eating goldfish with Lindsey and Gabriel on a Tuesday, then Wednesday, he’d play tetherball with Charlie, Ethan, and Douglas. They usually didn’t like the way he would play, small limbs spinning around a ball tied to a string, they told him to do it this way rather than that way, but he didn't like it that way, he liked it this way; his way. 

Though, Richie was intelligent and kind, a calm and easy-going child (up until the age of twelve, that is). He had a bold and silly personality shared with his father. They could crack jokes until the final days of time, they got along well, despite small arguments the future would bring. Richie could talk for hours and hours just about how his day at school went, or how fascinating the color of sunsets are. Or, ask when they could go down to Portland to play at the beach. They hardly ever would. Maggie, however, found it difficult to understand Richie at times. That’s as clear as it’ll get, as much as she tries her hardest to be a good mother. Not that she isn’t. She tries to be a mother who can recognize when something happens- a change, more so. 

Then, he couldn’t see the board as clearly as he used to. Now, Richie has a thing with putting thoughts or feelings (that he considered problems) off until they really begin to feel like they matter. A five-year-old having the sense of going blind felt urgent enough to freak out about after two days. So, the following Monday comes Richie Tozier in big, clunky glasses too large for his face. They were thick and rimmed a dark brown, and it took some time to get used to. First grade, nonetheless, was different. He’d been greeted with a different teacher, and a larger class with few familiar faces scattered around. No one really has someone to sit with on the first day of school, especially kids like Richie. He waits, and waits, and waits. It becomes nearly a full month Richie sits at a lunch table alone. Sure, with other kids there, too, though none of which were his friends. Maybe everyone around him was a foggy figure.

Richie likes foggy days, the ones where autumn is on the edge of winter, and the clouds are the only things in sight, yet somehow, it’s sunny. But not when it snows. When it snows, everything feels isolated, like the world won’t become shiny and bright again, so the snow is all you know. Rainy days are better. You can run around (“Careful, please!” Maggie will shout from the kitchen before Richie is running out the front door) the streets, splashing around in puddles and sticking your tongue out to taste the water. He hated mud, it was chunky and the texture felt weird even through his boots. But he always made sure to knock out all the bits stuck in the teeny creases. 

Maybe that’s why he had a constant fever during wintertime. 

But then, he meets Eddie Kaspbrak. Out of the entire First Grade Class of 1988 (he liked to imagine that when an adult was speaking about that, it would have caps. They would usually be so enthusiastic about it, so there must’ve been a special meaning to it), Eddie decides to sit with him. 

He wasn’t much shorter than the rest of the boys, taller than some, but maybe the rainwater Richie drank had weird mutant chemicals that made him more than the average height. He had brown, floppy hair, tanned skin, and big brown eyes. He had a softer face, cheeks would puff and turn pink when he would smile, bright and expressive eyes- _really_ expressive eyes. When Eddie had approached Richie, he wore a navy crewneck and jeans bunched at the ankles (autumns and winters came quickly in Derry. Air turning crisp and wind nipping at your cheeks by October, which is where they stood in the middle of), and a fanny pack resting atop his waist for the sole purpose of convenience or necessities. 

“Hey,” he had said, swinging a leg over the bench, voice light and almost breathy, like he had run from all the way across the lunchroom. Hell, maybe he did. “Hi,” Richie replies nearly shy. 

“Do you like fruit snacks?” he asks Richie, hand flipping open his lunch box, and Richie flinches slightly at the rush in movement because his brain is going a million places at once right now. Hesitantly, he nods, plucking another chip from his bag. “Do you want these? I don’t like them, my momma says they’re good for me, but I don’t think so.” 

Richie shrugs and takes the small packet over the table. He shifts the bag of chips towards the boy in front of him, who takes a moment to stare, then shakes his head vigorously. “Anyway, what’s your name?” he asks Richie. And it’s apparent that he, too, can’t keep his mouth from running. Or maybe Richie’s mouth has just run a little dry. 

“Richie,” he answers.

“I’m Eddie. Richie, you’re my friend now.” Eddie says easily because he can. Because he’s nearing seven and nothing in the goddamn world matters, not now, the world can wait.

And just like that, Richie had made his first friend. 

Richie would soon learn how fun Eddie was to be around, frequent jokes and non-heated disagreements. He was strong-minded and brave, very clean and careful, too. Eddie had briefly shared how safe his mother made him feel, and he loved her… a lot. He takes medication every few hours he’s sent to the nurse's office, and Richie only sees him use his inhaler once or twice. The two were constantly around each other, finding one way or another to sit together during class or lunch. But then… but then Richie meets Eddies’ friends. Mike and Bill, who, when Richie had met them, were playfully bickering over if Captain America or Iron Man was a better superhero. 

Mike was welcoming and polite, devoted, and protective. He had dark skin and expressive eyes, and _tall_. For a six-year-old, maybe. And as years would pass, he would still be handsome. But Richie would never admit that. Bill was honest and quite mature for his age. Auburn and brown hair, blue eyes that would tune out everything else in the world. 

It wasn’t like Richie envied Eddie for having friends, it was just new. He felt out of place though. Chunky glasses and an awkward stance, freckles dispersing along his nose and cheeks the sun had gifted him, and missing teeth which made him cover his mouth while smiling or laughing. At that age, everyone is losing teeth, yet Richie felt particularly odd about it. He’s far too young to learn about insecurities, so let the boy live. 

Mike and Bill were in the class next door, Eddie knew them from Bill’s mom, Sharon, being friends with Eddie’s mom, Sonia. And Bill knew Mike from a long time ago. The story of how they became close is a blur. Months go by and Richie doesn’t complain about school again. He likes the way Mike will shake his head with a close-lipped smile, the way Eddie will nudge his shoulder and Bill will add on to something. Eddie and Bill weren't particularly always close, yeah, they knew each other, not until the four of them became close. It felt good. 

It’s the four of them until third grade, when Bill met Stan. Stan was sharp and precise, cautious, and remarkably methodical. Well, so was Eddie, just in different ways. All of them were different, each in their own manner. And maybe that was why their bond was so special, because there wasn’t too much to disagree on or relate to, hardly anything they could _really_ fight over, notwithstanding them being children. It all made sense to their eight and nine-year-old brains. Anyway, Stan had merely sharp features, wore pale-colored clothing, and tight curls atop his head. In the fourth grade, they met Beverly and Ben, because Bill knows Beverly and Stan knows Ben, who happens to know Beverly, too. 

Beverly was ethereal, to Richie. She was fearless and a free spirit, compassionate and fierce. She had ginger hair that brought out her emerald eyes, and, much like Richie, had freckles. But all Richie saw her as, was a friend. He figured it may have been unrealistic if he were to develop some sort of crush on her, not that he felt that way with her, to begin with. It was all platonic. Ben was shy and somewhat timid, yet good-natured and reliable. He was a stockier kid, a round face and dirty blonde hair that would lay flat on his head. That’s how the seven of them stay, as the world-renowned Losers Club.

\---

It’s their first year of middle school, sixth grade, and Richie feels… Well, Richie feels different, to say the least. He doesn’t know exactly what, but it gives him headaches at night when he starts to think. And Richie doesn’t do a lot of thinking, mostly everything he has ever done was on impulse, which would come to bite him in the ass during high school. The media makes you see things, you take in what your brain accepts, and when you’re eleven, it’s nearly everything. Richie pushed those feelings aside, he felt like they were unimportant and what would be considered “a part of puberty”, so. 

One day, down at the Hanscom residence, Beverly made a comment on John Bender from _The Breakfast Club_ and how he “ _is so hot_ ,”. Richie's entire demeanor changed, retorted quickly with: _“Bev, you look like Molly Ringwald.”_ To which they all laughed. His chuckles were his excuse as to why his cheeks grew pink and warm. Richie grew into his own insecurities, pants becoming too short and sharpening features on his face, but baby fat still sticking to his skin. There wasn’t anything specifically wrong with the way he looked, yet he was eleven years old, you think everything is wrong with yourself at that age.

Maybe there was.

Richie began to wonder what exactly made him feel different. Emotions are so fucking confusing. Like, if the hole in your stomach gets too big from that anxious tension, it’ll consume you alive and entirely. Whatever. It isn’t like Richie had to worry about death this soon anyway. He’d sit at his desk and try to dissect the feeling in his stomach watching Ralph Macchio in _Karate Kid_ with his parents instead of English work. It was an older movie, Richie knows that he doesn’t look the same anymore. He tried passing it as vague jealousy that he could do the things he did and Richie simply couldn’t. Yet, it was a stupid excuse. Or… or why he felt his insides turn into tight knots around Eddie. He wouldn’t consider them butterflies. Maybe he was just afraid to do or say the wrong thing around him. It wasn’t like it even _mattered_. They’d been friends for years, so why did it come so suddenly? 

Eddie and Richie would tell each other everything, from shit at home to projects, or the way Brynn Torres almost split his head open in the third period. However, this isn’t exactly something Richie could build up within himself to share or ask about. Hell, like Eddie would even know. One day, at the Tozier’s house, the two sit on Richie’s bed, watching _Terminator 2_ (really just for background noise), when Richie says: “I think Ben likes Bev,” Eddie looks at him incredulously, “Really?” he asks, wide eyes and all. Richie shrugs, “Maybe. He’s kinda obvious about it,” After a while, Eddie just hums, nods, and looks down at his hands. “Do you like anyone, Rich?” Eddie asks eventually, and the way he looks at Richie is hopeful and- and yet scared, worried, _wishful_. But Eddie has naturally big eyes that could express the opposite of what he’d intended, so maybe Richie read him wrong. “Depends on who we’re talking about,” Richie replies, “‘Cause I liked the way your mom d-” 

“Oh my God, shut up!” Eddie hits Richie’s shoulder softly and giggles. “You don’t think so?” Richie questions, going back to the first one he’d asked. It’s getting darker now, despite it being five PM on a Saturday in October. The sky through Richie’s window glows an ashy blue, the sun far behind. 

“Maybe, I dunno, don’t really pay attention to those things.” Eddie answers. It’s true, he has his own shit going on, other things to worry about. And even if Eddie _did_ pay attention, it wasn’t like he cared to know about that, or _them_. “Like what?” Richie tilts his head to the side, and Eddie looks at him blankly for a moment, pondering. “You don’t pay attention to Bev and Ben?” Though it’s highly unlikely, he still asks. A small, breathy laugh is what Eddie lets out. “No, I do. I love them, obviously. Just,” 

Those words were ruled upon, held _boundaries_ against, oddly enough. Not with the other Losers, but Richie and Eddie. So what if they’d been friends for six years? Regardless, if little elementary kids truly knew the meaning of those words, they hadn’t ever said them. It felt weird. Too intimate. Too serious, in ways they couldn’t exactly comprehend, much less _say_. They would say it with Mike or Beverly, it was easy, they were closer as opposed to the others. But something about Richie and Eddie saying it was… off. Even a simple, _“thank you, I love you,”_ or _“Bye! Love you!”_ didn’t feel right. Neither of them had stopped themselves to wonder why, it became a natural thing. A routine. So they stuck with not saying it. 

“Crushes in general, I think,” Eddie elaborates slightly. “What an odd concept. Like, how hard do you pay attention to each other? I mean, like, I pay attention to you- and- and Mike and Stan, but it’s different. You know?” 

Richie more than just knows.

* * *

The year is 1995 and Richie is freshly thirteen. He doesn’t _feel_ any different, maybe, like, saying that he’s thir _teen_ rather than twelve is so much better. Words that sound like you’ve shed a layer of your life off your heavy skin, a flaunting farewell to your childhood. But Richie was never the type to flaunt anything, given, there wasn’t much _to_ flaunt. It’s March, which means it’s also spring, which means it also happens to be allergy season. And right now, he’s on the phone with a Stuffy Nosed Eddie constantly asking if he’s okay, and that it’s all right if he doesn’t make it to the sleepover the Losers are having tonight. “No, it’s okay,” says Eddie. On the other line, he sniffles (a grainy and staticky one from the speaker), rubs his nose, then says: “I’ll make it. Promise.” 

He doesn’t. 

It’s not like it’s the end of the world, Eddie has been sick plenty other times. However, the ache in Richie’s heart is foreign and distant; a weird buzz that he can feel in the back of his eyelids. The six of them still have fun. When Eddie goes back to school, he gives Richie a hug and apologizes, tucking his face into Richie’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it,” he says sadly, still a little congested. “But hey,” Eddie pulls away, slinging his backpack to the front of his body. “You’re finally thirteen!” he exclaims, pulling out an envelope, peach rings, and Warheads. Eddie always got Richie candy of sorts for his birthday. “Don’t open it yet,” Eddie says quickly once Richie reassures and thanks him. “I don’t want you crying all over me.” Which, that sentence _should_ worry Richie, in a sense where it’ll be an emotional gift. Since they’d been friends, Eddie has always been caring and heart-felt. He’s tough inside, sure, but if you get this kid vulnerable, he’ll be vulnerable, all right. Eddie was probably just being sarcastic, after all.

The two walk home after school. Even though they live a few minutes away from each other, they take the same road from school, then go their separate ways. “Open the letter now. I wanna see your reaction,” Eddie says, taking long steps over the cracks and crevices of the sidewalk. So, Richie does. He clears his throat and puts on a show as he reads it aloud, because, of course, this is Richie Tozier we’re talking about. “Ahem. _To my best friend,_ ” Richie says in a voice he hopes is mocking Eddie. 

“I do _not_ sound like that, asshole!” Eddie scoffs and pulls his sleeves over his hands, something he’s always done when he and Richie had moments like these. A defense mechanism, maybe, a distraction. “To my best friend,” Richie says again, voice high and playful. “You are so sexy and hot and funny and I am so lucky to have you in my life,” Eddie gawks at him, eyebrows raised and jaw dropped. He shoves a laughing Richie, “Read it, you idiot!” He says. 

Richie takes a minute to calm down, but when he does, he’s more serious. He reads it in his head because he hates reading things aloud, he jumbles his words and either ends up talking too slow or too fast. The letter is all but silly, all but _them_. Richie wouldn’t consider Eddie a writer, but it wasn’t as if he was completely terrible at it. He’s quick-witted and creative with the words he chooses, verbally, not written. Eddie is leveled with the people he chooses to spend time with, and that list doesn’t go very far. Those being the Losers (needless to say), and, Richie has to be top of the list, no doubt. Then again, Eddie wouldn’t admit that. He’d do anything for his friends. The letter is… it’s genuine and sarcastic and built as something that is just so simple and internally _Eddie_. 

And it goes like this:

_Dear Richie,_

_Well, you’re thirteen. How does it feel? No different, I know, just rhetorical. I think that’s what you're expected to ask when you grow into a fresh age, a new lens in your eyes (lens in your glasses, in this case), something more graspable in those oddly rough hands of yours. It’s a new chapter in your life and I think that it’s so fucking cool. Yeah, for you, but the fact we’ve gone through- pretty much our entire life with each other sort of baffles me. Not in a bad way, I mean, 8 year old me wasn’t expecting to leave you for dust anyway. I still don’t. I want to hold on to your stupid jokes and thick ass glasses until the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. Keep your head up, Rich. You’re the funniest, sweetest, most charismatic, and sarcastic person I’ve ever known. Don’t change for anyone, dipshit, even if we end up across the country when we go to college. Richie Tozier, you are the bestest friend I have ever had, and I wouldn’t trade you for anyone. Seriously, not even, like, Mike. This probably sounds like a note I’d leave for you on my deathbed or if you just turned 18. It’s just a- what the fuck? An appreciation thing? I don’t know. Happy birthday, Rich, may all your wishes come true, or whatever the saying is._

_-Eddie. Not Eds or Eddie Spaghetti or Spagheds- EDDIE!_

Richie laughs at the ending, staring at the paper in his hands. So delicate on the outside, but sharp edges, the writing itself is so RichieandEddie, their casual banter and nothing too serious. So, hell, the paper alone could be considered as just Eddie. In Richie’s mind, everything has sort of become Eddie, all in all, despite them being best friends, yeah, but… differently. 

“It isn’t much, I had to whip it up during breakfast this morning,” Eddie says, hinting sarcasm. Richie shakes his head with a smile playing at his lips, folds it back up, and tucks it into his pocket. A safe spot, a small thing just between them. “Thank you, my dear Spaghetti Man,” Richie says, swinging an arm over Eddie's shoulders. He tries to shrug him off, but not very hard or successful.

He pulls a beaded bracelet that sat at the bottom of the envelope, it’s green and yellow. Richie looks at Eddie confused (more importantly because his favorite colors aren’t those). “Oh, right,” says Eddie and pulls back his sleeve to show his: a green and orange one. “I can’t believe I’m wearing orange right now.” Eddie laughs, which causes Richie to mumble: “Asshole,” under his breath as he pulls the bracelet on. 

“Hey,” Richie says like a light bulb appeared over his head. “You said I would cry. I didn’t! I’m not that big of a crybaby!” He pulls his arms from Eddie and spins in circles in the middle of the street. It’s empty anyway. He can hear Eddie’s small scoffs (“ _That_ big of a crybaby,” he mutters), and even though his eyes are closed, he can see him rolling his eyes, gripping the straps of his backpack tightly. He can smell damp grass and cool winds turning warm, it’s a feeling he revels in while he extends his arms, immune to getting dizzy. It feels nice. 

“Car,” Eddie warns simply, so Richie hurries back onto the sidewalk next to Eddie. He stumbles a few steps, with everything in constant motion and his arms find their way back around Eddie’s shoulders. That’s what life feels like sometimes to Richie, a continuous loop you can’t escape, day after day everything is a routine. Like an ongoing and neverending carousel, the way the horse will rise and fall and spin, a weird, unexplainable analogy to life. You wake up every day, and it feels the same as the last, and eventually, everything sort of… everything blends into one. It doesn’t faze you because it’s become like another limb to you, another branch to your brain. 

\---

It’s November of 1996 and Richie is laying in bed. He looks to his left, at his bedside table, the clock reads 3:14 AM. He sighs discontentedly, shuffling over to face the wall covered in posters. Some freshly new and some old ones he found tucked away in the garage. He blinks a few times, blurry eyes trying to make out the shapes and letters. Richie rolls onto his back again, he shuts his eyes, just for a moment, before he sort of loses sense of who exactly Richie Tozier is. It isn’t too long before he gets uncomfortable. He takes a pillow from his side and puts it to his chest, hugging it tightly. He thinks of Eddie. Eddies eyes and how they can shine brighter than the sun, well, he himself is pretty much the sun. He thinks of Eddie’s soft smiles and the pretty color his cheeks turn, his hands and their delicate touches, his bright laugh at Richie’s stupid, stupid jokes, and the way he talks, fast and sharp when Richie gets a little too reckless. Maybe… maybe if Eddie were to-

“Fuck.” Richie mutters, tossing the pillow to his chest on the floor, sitting up so his legs dangle off the bed, and digs his fingers into his eyes. Maybe he’s dehydrated and fucking- he doesn’t know… hallucinating? If he even knew what that felt like. He searches for his glasses on the bedside table, pushes them on his face, and leaves his room. The lights are off except the one in the dining room, it’s silent except for the quiet hush of wind outside, the house is empty except- 

God, there always has to be an excuse with Richie. One way or another, there always is. 

Once he gets downstairs and into the kitchen, Richie pulls a cup from the cupboard quietly, fills it with water, takes a few sips, puts the cup down, hops onto the counter, picks the cup up again, but- shit, sets it down and cracks his fingers. He stares at the fridge and all the magnets on it- a few from vacations they’ve been on an old alphabet magnets with half the letters missing. At fourteen, Richie wonders what happened to him. The old him, reasonably. His elbows dig into his thighs as he covers his face in his hands. He takes a deep, shuddering breath when his eyes sting. It’s not like it isn’t normal, Richie has cried plenty of times but, over this? He blinks whatever threatened to spill when a door upstairs opens. There’s shuffling, small padding down the steps, before Maggie emerges from the stairs, bleary eyes and an expression that looks confused, and almost as if she was expecting to see Richie.

“Can’t sleep?” She asks, to which he shakes his head. Usually, he’d be told to get off the counter or, more simply, go back to bed. He wonders why it’s different now. They don’t say anything, just their breathing and eyes at the floor. “What’s keeping you up? It’s late, Rich,” she adds like Richie doesn’t _know that._ However, he shrugs. “Just- I dunno,” he lies.

Maggie purses her lips and leans against the kitchen island facing Richie. “Thinking, I guess.” He adds quietly, keeping his eyes on the floor because Maggie is _staring at him._ The thought of her looking into his eyes and fucking knowing is absolutely terrifying. “About what?” She asks, urges. It shouldn’t feel this weird talking to her, but it does, and it sort of pains him. 

Maggie is so genuine, she’s a sweetheart, nothing but good intentions. That creaks at Richie’s dam. “I… I don’t know.” He lies again, it only shatters him more. He can feel something rise in his throat, the sting in the corners of his eyes move to the center. _Not now,_ please _not now,_ he pleads to himself. 

“I think you _do_ know. If you don’t want to tell me now, it’s okay, but I’m always here, even if it feels like I won’t understand it, I’ll try my hardest.” She tells him warmly. It’s reassuring, knowing that she will be there no matter what but- but he doesn’t feel… fuck. And it feels like she knows. Richie doesn’t let his tears slip, as much as they pound at his eyes and make his lip tremble to the point where he has to bite on it, tearing the skin off his lip like he’s done a million times before. She uncrosses her arms and rests her hands on the counter behind her. “Can I ask you something?” Maggie asks in a near whisper. Richie’s eyes dart up, worrying at his bottom lip even more. He doesn’t feel his heartache in his chest anymore, maybe because it had fallen six feet under at those simple five words, it’s still heavily beating from there. A horrifying reminder that everything you have ever lived through sits with you forever. Suddenly, he hears everything. All the blood rushing in his ears and yet, the white noise that it carries. He can hear the grandfather clock in the living room _tick… tick… tick… No, no, no, no._

Reluctantly, he nods.

“Do you,” Maggie begins, Richie swallows at his dry, achy throat. “Do you feel different? Different from the rest of your friends, I mean. Like, Eddie or- or Ben?” All Richie can do now, is stare at the wall behind her. “Well, y-yeah, but,” Richie replies shakily. 

This isn’t what he wanted. This isn’t how things were supposed to go. 

“In what way?” She urges calmly. Richie’s palms break a sweat now against the cool marble, slipping slowly, however, not obviously. _In every way, you would hope not._ And then, his dam breaks. Richie curls his palms over his face, elbows digging into his thighs in a way so terrifyingly comforting. Oh, he _cries_. Hard. Quiet sobs rack through his shoulders, quiet so Went won’t hear. The kind of cry that leaves your eyes red and puffy, snot grossly and uncomfortably _leaking_ from your fucking nose in a way that is so, so, _so_ embarrassing. This doesn’t feel right, it feels like a nightmare you keep trying to wake up from. Richie takes his glasses off, more importantly, because they are smashing against his face. 

“Something is fuckin’ wrong with me, Mom,” he sniffles deeply, which- ew. “No, baby, there’s nothing wrong with you,” Maggie says as she pulls Richie into her embrace, fuck, it feels good. His head is on her shoulder when she kisses his head, then whispers: “You’re _okay_ , Richie, I wouldn’t want you any other way. I don’t care if you’re different, you’re you and that’s perfect.” 

Richie wishes that were true. 

\---

He doesn’t know when it started. Maybe it had always been like this but he just never listened to the voice that would creep upon him. Richie is smart, book-wise, and just in general. He thinks that he can like boys, too, and maybe it won’t ever be socially acceptable but, maybe just _think_ that they’re attractive- not to really show it- he’d be okay. Anyhow, his parents don’t necessarily have to worry about their son- God, whatever. Richie can convince himself that the lady playing the lead role in a movie is breathtaking, and he’s jealous of her love interest that he can have her. Probably the other way around. He can talk about girls and their boobs and how many he’d bang _before_ he even _got_ to college, because, then again, he could like both and up with neither. And Richie would feel… Richie would… Fuck it. He’s gonna die eventually. 

He’d beaten himself down for it constantly, despite it being in his head. He was sure Stan or Ben didn’t feel that way. Hell, even worse, _Eddie_ not feeling that way. Richie, in every way, was unhappy with that. Going by a label that didn’t sit right with him was miserable. Hell, he’d been doing that his entire life anyway.

* * *

There comes a time where Richie feels distant from everyone, and it’s junior year. No, he still doesn’t know _anything_. He feels fucking terrible about it too. Eddie deserves to know. But, not when he’s the reason Richie is acting the way he is. He doesn’t come to terms with it quickly. Richie will stare in the mirror after washing his hands or brushing his teeth and sometimes… sometimes Richie cracks. He can’t recognize himself, he doesn’t know if he ever did.

“How the fuck do you even _do this_ ?” Eddie will ask from the headboard while Richie is at the foot of Eddie's bed. He’ll look up from his notebook, blink cluelessly. “I could ask you the same thing,” Richie would breathe out, and Eddie would stare. Stare like he’d never seen another person in his entire life. It made Richie’s skin crawl. _No,_ he would think to himself. _Stop doing that. What are you doing? That isn’t how friends look at each other_.

His sexuality wasn’t something he could necessarily throw out the window and call it a day, “ _fake it til you make it_ ” type of bullshit. There were things in life you had to deal with. Like, fruit flies or a hangnail, you can wait those off. Maybe thirteen-year-old Richie just didn’t feel the way he was supposed to with girls yet. Then, he’s fourteen thinking about his best friend in a way you aren’t really supposed to. Fifteen, brushing it off as a platonic crush- if that were to ever fully process and make sense to him. Sixteen and… and he’s sitting in the living room with his parents. Nothing special, just _The Crush_ and popcorn. The movie isn’t even good, also because he isn’t really paying attention to it. His mind in a void empty full of thoughts. Richie doesn’t know how to talk anymore. He stuffs his mouth with more kernels than popcorn, his throat is still dry. He’d rather say this than never, rather than feel uncomfortable when they’d ask: “You got a girlfriend yet, Richie?” Inevitably, he’d shake his head and poke at the food on his plate. A sick feeling would pool in his stomach, like he’d just spew out vomit that were solid words and feelings. He thinks feelings are scarier than throwing up, how it rises and burns your throat. He doesn’t say anything the remaining time of the movie, just goes to his room and curls up in bed. Richie hardly gets sleep a week into winter break. 

Eddie says something first, surprisingly. There is sand taking up his throat when he does, hands fidgeting while he clenches his jaw tightly. Well, not entirely, a brief synopsis is what it was, really. He hadn’t even planned it, it was just a _one, two, three, say it_ scenario, he didn’t sit Richie down in his own home and share his life story and everything that went wrong and right that led up to that moment. It’s a sleepover, one that can’t be counted on their hands. “Do you ever feel like the world is just staring at you? Like, they know your worst secret ever?” Asked Richie, eyes glued to the ceiling because he couldn’t bear looking at the boy next to him. 

“Sometimes, yeah,” Eddie responded, voice only slightly above a whisper. His room is cold and it only comes to remind Richie how much he hates winters, how alone they make him feel. Tonight was an exception amongst others. Eddie shifted under the covers, rolling onto his belly and propping himself on his arms. “Well, what’s yours?” he asked Richie when the impending silence held too much threatening weight on it.

“Hm?” 

“Your secret. The worst one you can think of. I know you have a bunch, fuckin’ Harpocrates,” 

Richie jerks his head to the side quickly, “I’m not Harpocrates. I’m… I’m the male Athena.” He said defensively, yet filled with humor. “The- Jesus, shut up.” Eddie laughed, having to put a hand over his mouth so it didn’t echo the walls. “I’m dead serious!” Richie whisper-shouted, exaggerating with his hands and _definitely_ not smiling from Eddie failing to hold in his laughter. “Why else do you think I hit it off with your momma so well? Oh, Mrs K, my little Sonia Pneumonia, I lo-” 

_“Pneumonia?!”_ Eddie snorted loudly, throwing the boys into a fit of hushed giggles. “Don’t ever use illnesses and my mom in the same sentence,” he said once he’d calmed down. 

“Okay, but seriously. Biggest secret.” 

Richie froze under the blank darkness. Almost like a snake creeping up your back, slithering and sliding its way to your neck, your throat, the place that holds sacred and unsaid words, digging its teeth only to spill the blood of a rotten and poisoned boy. A boy unfamiliar… a doll. Richie could lie, obviously. Then again, it isn’t too ideal to lie to your best friend. He leans over and whispers into Eddie's ear, “I fucked your mom.” It’s stupid and casual, because what had Eddie really been expecting Richie to say? Eddie hits Richie’s arm, “She doesn’t even like you, dickface,” he says, no bitterness in his tone. “Aw, you talk to your momma about me?” Richie flutters his eyelashes. “Since the first grade, Rich.” Eddie breathes out after a small scowl on his face. All Richie does is hum. 

Secrets were a delicate topic, to a certain degree, that is. Between Eddie and Richie, there really hadn’t been anything _to_ be kept as a secret. Everything had sort of made its way into being a normal conversation. There wasn’t anything that could be necessarily held back, so, not much to care about what they were saying. Unless… unless he was laying in bed on multiple occasions contemplating everything, getting distracted in class- for reasons that he wouldn’t even let his brain elaborate for itself because it was too much to handle, or staring at his best friend under the moonlight during yet another sleepover for far too long than he should’ve been after a ‘your mom _’_ joke. The air feels different, harder to breathe, and somehow, easier. Maybe like everything is filtered, but your chest still feels tight and it aches of something that feels foreign, or something you’ve known for an eternity.

He should ask Eddie about that feeling. Eddie would know.

Instead, Richie clears his throat and shifts again. “What about you, Eds?” 

Eddie goes entirely slack, surprisingly, like there’s something important nudging his brain, pleading and begging to just say it, take that big gulp of air, and _say it._ It feels like this build-up for three simple words. Well, maybe they’re not that fucking simple. They could ruin his entire life, for all Eddie knows. You learn and you grow and escape from shit that haunted you, some of those things might not be worth escaping, some you strictly can’t. For the longest, Eddie felt like if he were to ever speak on it, he would feel okay for some time. Reality would soon kick in, leeches and roots of Derry dragging him right back underneath evil and terror, thousands of screams but a million fears. It’d leave him rung out and dry, left to rot in a place that held everything he hated but six hearts and their home. And, well, Richie Tozier is Richie Tozier, worst-case scenario, he makes a light joke about it. Except Eddie had constant doubts. 

“I like boys,” Eddie rushes out, almost mumbled below the loud silence. He’s on his back again, knees bent and arms crossed over his chest, to protect himself from anything. 

There’s a white noise rushing over their ears and making everything feel so surreal. It’s quiet for too long, and that distresses Eddie greatly. He starts to worry at his lip. He fucking did it. It’s terrifying- having to wait for a reaction- yet good. It feels so fucking good to be able to say it and breathe again. Richie, on the other hand, doesn’t know if his world has cracked or come together. Not that it would break for Eddie liking boys, no, _clearly_ not. But… but maybe for a different reason. _Me too,_ is all Richie has to say. _Me fucking too, Eds. And it hurts when my throat gets tight and I can’t tell you the truth. I wish I could. You deserve to know these things._

_Me too. Me too. Me too. Me too._

_Oh._

“Oh,” breathes out Richie, cracked throat and a shaky voice, unusual than any other time because, right now, the air is thick and taut with tension and uncertainty. He blinks slowly at the ceiling, hell, this has got to be a dream and they’d fallen asleep hours ago. Eddie twists the loose fabric at the hem of his shirt, anxious. Something they both hate the feeling of, the way it tugs and manipulates their insides. Richie sits up, finally, looking down at Eddie whose jaw is clenched and eyes are shut. “That… that’s cool, Spaghetti Man...” He says, and it feels forced, like Richie _has_ to make a joke or everything will go to shit, all the tracks that kept their train going will snap. “And super fucking brave,” Richie adds earnestly, genuinely. Eddie huffs what might be a laugh, what might be a heavy sigh. He still has his eyes shut, fucking _scared_. “Yeah?” Eddie whispers. He doesn’t trust his voice entirely, thinks it’ll betray him like everything else has.

_Me too._

“Fuck yeah!” Richie exclaims, quiet enough so it doesn’t echo, still loud and enthusiastic enough for it to pull a soft laugh from Eddie. He sits up now, shuffling his back against the wall. And… it’s that similar stare they’d snuck before. Eddie’s throat is tight again, digging his nails into the skin on his fingers, “Thank you.” He says quietly. 

“For?”

“For not being… I don’t know, weird, I guess.” 

Richie looks back down at his hands, focusing on the way the light from his window has suddenly become much brighter, like he can see things significantly more clearly. Oh, God, he feels so _happy_ for Eddie. That’s his best friend, above everything else. “I kinda want to hug you right now,” Eddie says, he feels small with the weight of the world and its silence on his shoulders. And they hug. Richie holds onto Eddie’s shirt so tightly he’s scared he’ll catch a grip of his skin, and Eddie’s jaw is trembling, begging his eyes to not let these tears spill, and, eventually, they do.

(It’s similar to when they’re thirteen and giddily laughing as they leave the Barrens with the rest of the Losers, slowly dispersing and separating into their streets and lanes. Only a few hours pass when Eddie comes knocking at the Tozier residence, shaking hands and face blotchy as tears threaten at his eyes. “She lied about everything,” Eddie had said, “My medication, they were all gazebos.” And Richie had stifled the urge to correct him. He’d cried then and he cries now, except for two different reasons, obviously. It’d taken Eddie time to heal from manipulation and raw, torn out lies that fucked him over for thirteen years).

It only worries Richie, asking if he’d done or said something wrong. “No,” Eddie sniffles and shakes his head, a little laugh to it. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“I’m proud of you, Spaghetti,” is what Richie had mumbled into Eddie’s shoulder.

Eddie doesn’t sleep, Richie pretends but only gets a few scattered minutes within hours. And Eddie leaves in the early morning, while the sun is peeking over fields and homes and trees, the sky a bruised purple. It’s roughly six in the morning and he can’t take this anymore. That night had ended oddly. Something had tapped Richie’s heart a few times, then something in his brain that simply told him no. He ought to agree with his head more often. 

It’s been two weeks, and something between them has shifted. 


	2. two

Now, it’s winter of 1998 and… and it’s Richie and Eddie. Gaps in between and spaces that feel like miles apart, questions that have blanks as answers. In Richie’s mind, he’s fucked up. Silence follows. A crack in their porcelain painting. There’s a missing piece to this puzzling ‘fight’. Neither would even come close to considering it a fight, they’re just… not talking. Well, altogether not how it used to be with them. The approach would be odd because Richie hasn’t been one to communicate well, and Eddie… Eddie is stubborn, yet only with the people he chooses to be stubborn with. 

They miss each other, and it’s so painfully obvious that they don’t know what to do. Their conversations are short, not as witty and playful. Richie thinks he didn’t react the way Eddie would’ve wanted him to. Eddie had just wished that maybe he shouldn’t have said anything in the first place, having the feeling that it was nothing but platonic and unrequited. Richie was ambivalent about, well, pretty much everything about himself. 

However, that Friday is Christmas, and all the Losers (as tradition between them goes) are gathering together. Whose house it is usually varied, though, tonight, it’s at the Denbrough’s. The Losers are sixteen and seventeen, spread across the living room with pizza and soda, they’ve got red and green and white sweaters that cling to the pine scent around the house, and Richie has placed the needle onto a Christmas Hits vinyl. “You are too much, Richie Tozier,” Beverly says as she sinks into the sofa, leaning against Ben. Richie snaps his fingers and spins as he makes his way back to the floor next to Stan.

Richie and Bev wear matching pink and sparkly Santa hats singing to _Last Christmas._ Eddie eats the mini marshmallows straight from the bag, the ones used for hot chocolate. “Hey, hey, Bill,” Richie says as he leans against the island counter. “You got any of the good stuff? Y’know,” he pinches his thumb and index finger together, putting them to his lips. Bill rolls his eyes fondly, “No, I don’t h-have weed, Richie.” And Richie pouts humorously. “But, I do have the n-next best thing, b-being… uhm, apple juice,” 

“Pour me a glass, baby,” 

Then, they sit and watch _The Nightmare Before Christmas._ Stan mumbles something about Richie being Jack Skellington from how tall and lanky they both are, and Richie would then retort with _“be my Sally,”_ and smacks air kisses from across the room. 

The seven of them gather in the living room, watching as gifts are unwrapped and warm smiles are shared. Richie is filming on a VHS, telling Mike, _“I_ do _know what I’m doing, Mikey,”_ as he zooms into Mike’s eye. The time Richie films is a true mess, calling to each Loser as they smile big and wide and wave their hands around. He’ll get a shot of Beverly and Ben and whisper to the camera, “ _Would ya look at that, two lovers out in the wild…_ ” and Stan would interrupt him with, “ _Leave them alone, Richie._ ” They hadn’t even been dating, yet it was so obvious that whatever feeling they had, was mutual. He ends up using two tapes worth of footage that night.

Then, Richie dismisses himself at roughly nine, and Eddie follows a little after. Richie sits at the steps on their porch, arms wrapped around his torso while the air pinches his face and numbs his cheeks. There’s soft snow under his feet, as small bits twinkle down and get caught in the loose thread of his jeans and the ends of his hair. It’s cold and comforting at once, reassuring to a degree. When Richie hears the front door open and shut again, he doesn’t need to turn to know who it is, like that weird energy that was between them had gotten comfortable, and it probably won’t go anywhere until they do something about it. 

“Hey,” Eddie says as he sits next to Richie. It’s nearly as if they warm each other with the heat they have, and Eddie is sitting close enough so their knees touch. “Hey,” Richie replies, and some silence and intensity, amid it all, grows as Eddie shuffles his boots into the snow, and pats the empty space, and creases his shoe made with more snow from his foot, so it becomes smooth until he does it again. 

“Are we, like, okay?” Eddie says with a breath. 

“Yeah… Yeah, why wouldn’t we be?” 

Richie knows he’s just saying that to not worry Eddie, that’d be the last thing he’d want to do tonight. There’s a very prominent and obvious hesitancy and vague misunderstandings. “We’ve kinda been- I dunno... off, I think,” Eddie says, rubs his palms together, and sniffles. And, so, because Richie cares about the people he loves rather than himself, he puts the blame on emotions that never took the time to take a toll on Richie. “ _I’ve_ been kinda off. Weird shit, I guess.” Richie shrugs and looks to Eddie, who still wears a concerned face. Inside, they can hear Beverly’s laughs and Bill singing (quite terribly, actually). But, it’s just the two of them outside. Just like it’s always been.

“Okay, but, ever since I, _you know_ ... “ And Eddie leaves the sentence open, very fucking clear. He’s not stupid, either, he knows when something is up with Richie, and at the time being, it felt like Eddie coming out _had been_ the reason, Eddie was damn sure of it. 

Richie thinks of three weeks ago, _me too_ , he’d wanted to say, and he wants to say it now. Except… except it’s locked in his chest, or maybe the middle of his throat, because it feels tight again. “It’s not about you. Promise.” Richie finally says, looking back in front of him where the snow has stopped falling, but the air is still icy. “I’m sorry,” he slumps and rests his head on Eddie’s shoulder, cheek itching at the sweater's fabric, but he couldn’t care less.

“Sorry if I made you feel like it was your fault, or if I made you feel like you did something wrong. You didn’t.”

Eddie leans into Richie’s touch, listening. “It’s okay,” says Eddie, picking at the thread on his sweater, “I was really just confused,” and he wants to start running his fingers through the knots in Richie’s hair, like the plenty of times he’s done before, but he can hardly even feel his own fingers, let alone the snow in his hair that would make it worse. He's not going to risk hypothermia or, like, chilblains- he knows he most likely won't. “You can tell me anything, you know that, right?” Eddie asks, their lives have become different, yet they're still the same people. 

Richie whines, almost like a toddler, “I don't like being serious,” 

“But you can be ‘serious’ with my mom,” Eddie smacks his teeth, “ _Okay_.” And Richie laughs, even if it hadn't been that funny, just like everything else they've done. “I still love you, even though you can be stupid sometimes.”

That’d been the first time that was said. It’s not big news or whatever, obviously that platonic mutuality was there, _still_. His chest jolts in a laugh again. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. Because they’re friends and that’s all they’re ever going to be, they won’t be in Richie’s fantasy world where everything is perfect, nothing but butterflies and rainbows. They probably won’t even share the same sunrises and sunsets, they’d probably end up on opposite coasts, exchanging phone calls a few times a week from a college dorm hall. Richie would miss watching the sunrise and set with Eddie, or star gazing random nights of the week on the hood of Richie’s car. God, they’d probably be working nine-to-five desk jobs for all they know. What a horrifying reality, Richie dreads that one, so he replaces it with one he can only dream of, one he can cling onto until it becomes old and boring. 

“It’s okay,”

“Sorry,” 

“Richie.” 

He looks up from Eddie’s shoulder with a shit-eating grin, the faint glow of the porch light shining on them duly. And Richie… Richie has an urge- one that he’s been able to push aside before. Richie hates this. The little stares or glances like… like they mean _something_ , not friends, despite that being all they are. They're chewing bubble gum Ben had gotten for all the Losers, for a moment Richie thinks about how sweet Eddie would taste if he were… if he were to just. And, as much as Richie would want to, he can’t. Not when Eddie drops his eyes to a place where Richie knows aren’t his eyes. Not when his face begins to heat up. Not when Richie swallows the gum, getting caught in his stomach with butterfly wings. Not when Richie sniffles and clears his throat, sitting upright and running his palm over his knees. 

“What if, um... What if I was, too?” Richie asks unclearly. He’d always done things like that, where his sentences or questions weren’t too clear. 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Like, you know…”

“No, Richie, I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking,” Eddie giggles softly. He’s got an idea, though he doesn’t take it seriously. Richie musters up all the bravery he has within himself- which might not be a lot- throws it all away and instead, “If I married your mom,” he says. “Gross,” Eddie rolls his eyes, “That didn’t even make sense.” He then gets up, wipes dirt and snow from his jeans, and helps Richie up

They head back inside, as warmth takes over their bodies, a sudden change in the temperature making Richie raise his shoulders to his ears for a moment, before bringing them back down and shaking out his hands. “If I get a cold, it’s your fault.” Eddie teases, poking at Richie’s cheek. 

He hopes those few minutes didn’t shift them more than he thought they were. Richie can tell that Eddie hopes the same.

“Take a picture with me under the mistletoe,” says Beverly, grabby hands for Richie. And because he’s nice, he says yes. Bill takes them, the first a fake innocent pose as they realize what they’re under. The second is Beverly puckering her lips and leaning up towards Richie. He laughs it off and puts his palm facing her. The last is them chuckling warmly. Nothing too special, and Richie knows he shouldn’t feel a certain way because of it, it’s just… weird, maybe. Weird that he’d never kissed a girl (although he’s never thought about it, much less like a girl. So very clearly. Hell, Richie knows he’s gay, but). Oddly enough, Richie sees some sort of rules if you’re gay, or in the realm of liking the same sex. He makes everything sound like some nerdy, complex game. 

Like, rules to sorting your sexuality out. He wasn’t supposed to know this soon unless one thing had led to another. That isn’t the case. All Richie wanted was to be normal, just to understand himself like the rest of society did (Not all of them did anyway, most of them were simply blind-sighted in their own mirror). He wanted to be what everyone thought he was, he wanted an exception to this.

Richie Tozier wanted many things, and of course, you don’t always get the things you want most. Humans dream of the unattainable, the unimaginable, most of the time. 

\---

Later into the night, they’ve slumped around and beat down. From a night filled with music and dancing and jumping and laughing and food, it’s pretty tiring. Richie tilts his head back to look at the ceiling fan, thinking about how much dust can accumulate- why dust is even a thing. “Hey, guys?” Bill calls from the kitchen. “What does red wine taste like?” 

“You’re gonna kill your kidneys, Bill,” Mike calls back. 

Bill slumps against the arch separating the living room and kitchen, “I’m not k-killing my kidneys with _w-wine_ , are you insane?” 

“It tastes like nail polish remover, trust me.” Richie interrupts, sitting up straight to see all of them looking at him with a confused expression. “Wh- How the fuck do you know what nail polish remover tastes like?” Ben sputters out. 

“Why do you care?” 

“Rich, it tastes like Welch’s grape gummies,” Beverly says. And maybe she’s right.

“Mrs. T wouldn’t let you anywhere near wine, dumbass, you’d act drunk from half a glass.” Stan narrows his eyes.

"He'd act d-drunk if you g-g-gave him sparkling cider and t-told him it was w-wine," Bill chimes in, looking at Stan but directing it to everyone.

“Have you drank nail polish remover?” Eddie asks, and God knows if a human is capable of furrowing their eyebrows more than he was. 

“Do you guys wanna fuck me or something?” They spill into laughter, as usual. Bill doesn’t drink anything. Eddie braids Richie’s hair messily, they take some ornaments from Bill’s tree and stick them between knots, and pulls of his hair. Eddie takes a picture and labels it _xmas ‘98_ underneath. 

And it’s another Christmas, just like the other memorable ones they’d had. It’s shitty songs and movies, it’s stupid and cliche gifts because none of them have been materialistic, per se. It’s the running out to Bill’s backyard and throwing snow at each other. It’s everything they’d hope it could be because he's _happy_. So heart-wrenchingly, genuinely happy. He's got the six people he loves so dearly in a home in his heart with the door locked. 

* * *

Having a crush on your best friend is a taboo sort of thing. When they’ve been there through everything (vise versa, too), it’s hard to walk on eggshells around them when they’ve mastered the skill of knowing when something is wrong by age nine. The whole situation is juvenile. Richie thinks of a day where these things won’t matter, where he wouldn’t be considered ‘different’ as opposed to everyone else. 

He doesn’t remember where these four years went. Now, he’s eighteen and it’s the summer of 1999, they’re seniors this fall. It was something he took the time to juggle with, looking into colleges early on because, _“you’ve got potential, Richie. We want you to get into a good school.”_ Went had said. Richie cried that night. He never liked the idea of growing up, there was so much to do- To do with the Losers, that is. 

Richie and Eddie go to the movies in June, just the two of them. They go to see _10 Things I Hate About You_ at the Aladdin, it’s a silly romcom neither of them get. The two whisper nonsense and steal popcorn from each other. Richie likes extra butter in his, and Eddie doesn’t. Richie likes Dr. Pepper and Eddie likes Sprite, Eddie likes M&M’s, and Richie still prefers peach rings over any chocolate candy.

“Let’s make a movie, Eds,” Richie says as they leave, throwing their trash away into the nearest trash bin as they walk toward the arcade area. “We’ll name it _ten things I love about you_ , how’s that sound?” Eddie had kept his drink, the remains of it. “Awful.” He replies, “A _million_ things I hate about you,” he mutters before taking a long sip, noisily drinking what was left between ice. It’s really just to get Richie’s attention, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

“Stop doing that,” Richie scowls, as if he doesn’t do that either. “Don’t act like you don’t do that,” Eddie retorts. Touche, Richie can’t argue with that. 

They play Street Fighter for some time. Eddie beats Richie by one point. “Dude, you were _totally_ in my bubble,” Richie says, as if they were still first graders, back when they’d met and time and it’s years were nothing but an illusion, when things were far simpler. “Because the tip of my elbow bumped you?” Eddie pulls the sleeves of his jacket over his hands (the Aladdin was always cold, every square inch of it. No way in hell would he be wearing a jacket in the middle of June, okay?), “Fuck off. Take defeat, bitch,” and Richie splutters a laugh out. 

There’s a photo booth in the corner, it’s been there for a couple of years, all of the Losers have taken a picture in it. The booth itself has gotten dirtier and dirtier, but Eddie doesn’t care. If it means making memories, then nothing matters. Inevitably, they go inside. It’s a myriad of things they do. It’s them smiling big and wide as a countdown flashes the screen. It’s their voices overlapping as they take a second to discuss the next pose. It’s Richie exaggerating a kiss to Eddie’s cheek, and it’s Eddie pushing him away, laughing. Lastly, it’s Eddie wearing Richie’s glasses- eyes wide after he’d blinked vigorously at the sudden change. 

Eddie and Richie leave before dark, as the sky rolls out a bleak sheet of grey, the sun teasing at the horizon. Derry usually feels like an isolation, it doesn’t feel real, and they’re pretty sure that Derry isn’t even on any map. None of them ever found themselves in Derry after high school, it wasn’t… it wasn’t for them. They’re made for something bigger, made for something obscure and free, with no structure or stigma, no _orderly fashion_ type of shit. And it’s easy to get stuck in Derry, it’s easy to lose balance from your tightrope. The Losers pull each other back on, though, and it doesn’t take much out of them. 

“Derry is so weird,” Eddie says as they walk on the street together, gone are the days of them separated by sidewalks and safety rules. “I don’t think we exist.” Richie frowns, and it’s a plausible thing. 

The streets are dim and quiet. “Oh,” Eddie breathes as he looks across the street, then back to Richie. “That's Matilda, she's in my chem.” She's got short black hair and laughs with a tall blonde girl at her side. 

“Like the movie?” Richie asks.

“Yeah,” Eddie confirms with a laugh, “Like the movie,” 

"But, she won't, like, chop my dick off with her mind, right?" Richie jokes.

Eddie laughs, "Who knows," 

“She's nice. I think you'd like her,” It’s a weird thing to say, especially so candidly. Richie nearly goes rigid- but catches himself before his body follows his brain. “I don’t remember the last time I liked someone. I don’t think I ever have,” and he laughs dryly, no humor. It’s a partial lie. “Yeah, you fuckin’ alien,” Eddie quips, jostling Richie softly. Derry is a small town, although it would be easier if they drove Richie’s car, something about walking gives a raw expression between them.

“Would you tell the others?” Richie asks, “About you, I mean,”

Eddie pauses, “Like… me _me_ , or… me?” With the emphasized ‘me’, they both know the question asked. And that’s something Richie likes about their friendship, is that they don’t have to use words or elaborate on too much in order for them to understand something. “You _you_ ,” Richie answers. “At some point, yeah, they deserve to know,” says Eddie, “I don’t think they’d mind. At least, I hope not.” 

  
  
\---  
  


By the time they reach Eddie’s house, the stars have made their appearance. They’re outside Eddie’s porch, the light glaring on Richie’s glasses. “Thanks, dickbag,” Richie says, pulling his arm up to ruffle Eddie’s hair (he doesn’t try to dodge it anymore, just waits for Richie to be done so he can run his own fingers through and shuffle it into something tamer). “For kicking your ass in Street Fighter?” Eddie asks rhetorically, “My pleasure,” 

Eddie clears his throat after a few seconds into their “ _longing, stolen stares_ ”, that’s what Eddie considered them now, as much as he didn’t want to. Maybe he did. It’s been four years, they should both give up at this point. He reaches up, taking Richie’s glasses off his face, “These are so dirty,” he says, cleaning the lenses with his shirt. Richie blinks a few times, “Oh. Yeah, sorry,” He focuses on the furrow in Eddie’s eyebrows and the way his lips move to the side so he can chew on his cheek. Eddie had been so descriptive about it one day, _“it takes_ everything _out of someone to clean these, sheesh,_ ” he’d said. 

He puts them back on Richie’s face delicately, hands brushing Richie’s face and hair ever so tenderly. Eddie keeps his hands on the sides of Richie’s face, his thumbs right below the skin under Richie’s eye. And Richie finds himself standing there awkwardly. If he were to move his hands even slightly, he’d break Eddie and it would take a few days to put him back together. They’ve got stars in their eyes and hammers beating their chests… Until Eddie moves his eyes to his feet, then back up with a smile that’s barely there. He slaps Richie’s cheek lightly, giggling quietly and softly at Richie’s withdraw. 

“...’ Kay, goodnight, Rich,”

“Night, Spaghetti Man. Kiss your momma goodnight for me,” he’s down past the driveway, now. 

“In your dreams,”

“You’re the best part in ‘em,” Richie winks from afar. 

Eddie has got to give up on this.

* * *

It’s November second, one week before Eddie’s nineteenth birthday. “ _it’ll be your golden birthday! We’ll all make it special, promise_ ” Richie said that Tuesday morning. The air was lush with the crispness autumn brought, it smelled of rain and dampened moss. Autumn was the only time Derry had some sort of liveliness to it. It technically wasn’t Eddie’s golden birthday, but Richie liked making things exciting. 

It’s just Richie and Eddie down near the Barrens, driving past the gritty gravel that trails the Kissing Bride in Richie’s car. Initials and phrases dug into secret wood with pocket knives. The Losers used to go down to the Barrens a lot, back when adolescence and bike rides hadn’t been anything but their life, solely. Things change, whether you like it or not. There was an uneasy, alarming eeriness there, but that’s what made it so special to them. No sensible person would actually go down there for fun- unless you’re a part of The Losers Club, realistically. The fresh crunch of autumn's delicate leaves fall beneath tires, it’d been a stuffy, misty day. Phrases and the aura around the bridge put them on the edge of their seat, gripping the steering wheel tightly until Richie’s knuckles are white, or plastered eyes onto red and yellow-leaved trees that roll by slowly. Richie presses on the gas a little harder, just to get past. A breath he doesn’t realize he’s holding escapes Eddie’s chest. A let go, in the ever so haunting seconds of what is Derry and it’s horror.

A round right turn is what they take to get back into town. As short brick buildings line up with small children and their sticky, clammy hands grip at their mothers. Eddie wonders if those kids would grow into the mold Derry offers. He wonders why their group is so different as opposed to everyone else in this town, why they have a resentment toward the streets and landmarks and the people. Maybe everyone else does too, but… but maybe they’re stuck underwater with their ankles tied by roots and origins- the thing Eddie dreaded most. He knows Richie wants to leave, too. Well, all of them do, they’d spread a map out across the country with phone calls and holiday visits that keep them tied. 

Stan would go somewhere South, maybe Georgia, putting numbers to his brain. He’d go on about birds for as long as he wanted to, with notebooks he’d had since he was twelve. Mike would go to New York, and Bill would tag along- their bond being a valuable one. Bill would write. Write, write, write until his hands grew raw and his head blows steam from all the thinking he’d be doing. He’d walk around for a spark of inspiration till his ankles were sore, waiting to melt into the pavement. Mike would knead soft dough between his hands, he’d have flour printed on his clothes. It’d be worth it in the end, with the smell of baked goods filling up the building. And, well, they both love books, so what’s the worst that can happen? Beverly would go to Chicago and become a fashion designer, pins waiting between her lips while she pushes and pulls a needle and thread. She’d pleat patterned skirts and compliment colors, she’d put together a suit and tie for Ben because he would go with her, they’d dreamt about that already. Ben would plan and sketch and build skyscrapers that could touch the clouds and stars, places that were meant to hold people into a bond. He’d plaster more windows on a building than there ever was in Derry. Richie would go to California, he’d press his palms against a cool railing on his balcony, one that overlooked the ocean view in Los Angeles- or maybe the city of San Francisco- he’d breathe in the salty air, or maybe he’d breathe in a cigarette, an homage to a best friend over two-thousand miles away making dresses for runway models. Maybe. He knew how much Eddie hated it when he smoked. And he’d laugh. Richie would do something with film, or maybe put his one-liners and Voices to use on a radio station- he’d always been incredible with music. People would know who he was, and he’d love that, Richie liked attention. They’d fly high. 

Eddie doesn’t know where he’d be, or, hell, even what he wants to do. 

He toyed with the idea that he and Richie could go west, but it was unrealistic and… and _scary_. Scary for Richie, mostly. Richie is a free spirit, and he wants to have fun in life because you’re only here for such a short time, it’d be amazing to put it to use and _live_. And Eddie can give him the moon, but not the world. Richie deserves that. But Eddie is selfish, and he thinks about all the pros and cons; whether it were for himself, or Richie, or both of them. Still, it was a terrifying idea, and Eddie felt obligated to push it away, it was too much. 

But, of course, he still asks.

“What schools have you applied to?” Eddie asks, his elbow is on the window, small rain pattering the glass. Richie would stick his tongue out if he were younger, taste the water as it drip, drip, dripped down his throat. Eddie would still be pretending against so many things. Instead, he chews the inside of his cheek, maybe grinds his teeth a little. “A few in Southern California, uh, a few in Northern, too.” Richie answers.

“Maybe, like, two in New York,” he adds, “Probably won’t get into ‘em, I’d so much rather go to California anyway,” 

And, yeah, it is true. Richie isn’t made for small towns like Derry, towns so orderly and sophisticated, towns that poke and prod expectations of you as you grow. He’d love New York, and he could find himself a perfect seat within everyone there. But it’d be cramped, he’d still want to take a breath, and out there- by the looks of it- he probably couldn’t with either. Literally _and_ metaphorically. 

He lets out a sigh, and a question he didn’t want to ask, “You?” Because growing up is so fucking _terrifying_. Maybe everyone and everything is just a social experiment, and teenage years and adolescence isn’t anything but the wrong wiring. Until one becomes an adult, ready for the real world, taking on mortgage and taxes. They’ve pulled into Richie’s driveway, going to sit on the hood of his car, per usual. 

“I don’t know, everywhere and nowhere at the same time,” Eddie replies, quite honestly, actually. He doesn’t even know what Seattle looks like, but he applied there. He doesn’t know if he’d even _like_ California, but… but most of them from California stayed in his room at his desk and tucked away. If he doesn’t like the state or the city he’s in, then… then maybe there’d be at least one thing he’d like.

“You do California yet? You could be my neighbor- Oh, remember when we were, what, eleven? We had said UCLA, or Berkley… and then-”

“ _Richie_ ,” Eddie cuts him off softly. 

Richie is anything but selfish, so when his name is said in that tone, especially by Eddie, he could be if he wanted to. Maybe defensively selfish. “...Did you get accepted somewhere already?” He asks, and he feels weird, as much as he didn’t want to be. Eddie shakes his head and keeps his eyes on the dip of the sidewalk and onto the street. “I just… I don’t know where to go, you know?”

“So come with me,” Richie says, and there’s that selfishness that teases the edges of his throat. He wishes it were nothing but stardust tickling him. Eddie flits his eyes between Richie’s, something he’d done as a sign of uncertainty when words were too big. And they both soften up, Richie mostly. “Why not?” He asks quietly, and Eddie had never been more grateful for their nonverbal communication. 

“What if it’s not for me, you know? I might wanna skip that and go to Paris or- or Italy or Amsterdam, I don’t know,” 

“Do you even know what you want to do?” Richie asks, and he flinches at his own words, hoping they didn’t sound too harsh. 

“No, and that’s my point, Rich. I could find a whole new life somewhere- _anywhere_ , maybe not even Europe, maybe, like, New York, or fuckin’ _Australia_ , I don’t know. I don’t know a lot of things,” 

_Clearly_ , Richie thinks bitterly, _selfishly_. “Well, what if we could help each other figure things out, you know? Just the two of us, like it’s been since day one,” and he’s talking so… so dreamily, maybe not his tone, but his words, more importantly. Richie changed over the years, as one will, but one thing won’t ever change. He’d still clench his fist with an imagination at hand, pretend like they _would_ happen, even when a knot in his stomach gets tighter. 

“Yeah, but, don’t you think we’d get tired of each other? I mean, _come on_ , Richie, you really don’t think that if we continue to see each other literally almost every day for the next few years, we won’t get sick of each other? Like, we’ve been best friends for eleven years... You don’t get sick of me? Ever? Because I don’t see myself being the only one here.” 

Maybe a sun in the sky exploded, or something, because Richie doesn’t know how to react to that. And Richie doesn’t really get mad or sad, only when pent up rage he thought he threw out finds him again, or when a sulking sadness huddles over him. This spurs him, though, and it turns his stomach sour. He looks from Eddie to his hands, tracing the bone and skin with his eyes. Eddie only looks at him worriedly, only then realizing the faucet was left on and the bathtub overflowed, having filled far too quickly to begin with. 

“Didn’t have to lay me down that harsh, jeez,” Richie chuckles slightly, no humor, however. “But it’s okay, Eddie, really.” 

Eddie opens his mouth to say something, only to let out a few stammers. “I’m sorry,” he finally says, “I was being really vague and that isn’t _at all_ what I meant.” He’s on his feet now. _Just tell him_ , a voice lingers near. “Then what _did_ you mean?” No, Richie isn’t angry or upset in any way, he’s filled with confusion, he has been for the past four fucking years. 

_Tell him, you’ll be alright if you do._

He doesn’t.

“If I fucked up, then you gotta let me know,” 

“No, you didn’t fuck up,” Eddie is quick to say.

Richie exhales sharply, looking up where grey clouds cluster together, there’s probably rain coming soon. Huh, fitting. “Then why are you being a dick right now? Your whole vibe, ever since the car, since we left.” 

It’s blunt, really. Richie had usually always been straight-forward, letting words tumble out before they were caught. Eddie pauses, not for long, just for a few seconds. Raw, blatant honesty being sort of torn open, really. It pains Eddie to know that they were so young and innocent, so pure and oblivious to the world, dreaming about a lifetime of friendship together. How pathetic.

_Because I’m so scared, Richie. For the past six years, I’ve been nothing but scared around you. I’m afraid of the truth. I’m afraid of letting you go, and I never intend to be selfish. I can’t have you, and I need to come to terms with that, but I’m afraid of that, too._

“The fuck?” Eddie huffs out, “I’m not _trying_ to be a dick, and I’m sorry if it seems like it, but get the fuck out of your head, Richie. This isn’t a fucking fairytale, dude.”

“Eddie, your head is so far up your own ass, it seriously feels like you’re a forty-year-old woman,” 

Now truly isn’t the time for sarcasm or jokes or embarrassingly horrid attempts at recovery. 

“This literally started because _you_ acted like a baby over college, Richie. Over college!”

“You make it sound like such bullshit-”

“No, because it _is_ bullshit, Richie-”

“Can you calm the fuck down?"

“...And it’s so pathetic, dude, it really fucking is. You think I can pack my bags and we drive to California? Was that the plan? What, like sixth-grade pinky-promises matter? No, Richie…”

“Fuck you,” As much as things flow from Richie, nothing was easier to say than this. So unbiased and straight-forward. And so roughly he blinks hard a few times. 

People don’t stay in your life forever, they aren’t meant to, and, no one should be expected of that. 

And it’s weird. Ever since the night where the both of them laugh over silly jokes and so-called secrets, to spilling tears onto each other’s shirts (because Eddie? Eddie had come out to Richie, the only person, because Richie was the only person Eddie really, _really_ trusted, and had, to be completely candid, and it was something that needed to be treasured) an energy had gotten comfortable between them. The energy thrummed and beat its drum. It was still there, well over a year later. So now, they don’t look at each other. Maybe they’d finally realized everything, had that epiphany, or whatever. He wants to ask, that if one thing was done or said differently, would everything be different today? Yet still, just like countless other things, he resists the tempting urge to do so.

It’s odd, because, what once was, _look at me, Richie, please. Why aren’t you looking at me? I want you to look at me,_ a sacred and whispered wish to the world and its wonders. They were too big for the universe and its back, so it was better kept locked in Eddie’s throat, building off of other things. 

Has now turned to:

 _I don’t want you to look at me anymore. I don’t want you to know everything I have ever kept from you. I don’t want your stupid secret stolen stares and glances. I don’t want the tiny tap dancer on my heart when I’m around you anymore. Don’t look at me like that anymore, please, stop looking at me like that. Like I’m not just your friend, like I’m not here just to make you feel better about yourself, just so you can make me laugh. Do normal friends dedicate night stars you inevitably won’t see the next night to each other? Do normal friends sneak into your bedroom from your window at night just to take you on a drive when home isn’t doing too good? Do normal friends smile at each other like how you smile at me? Even worse, do I return that smile? Do normal friends dedicate songs and tapes to each other; ones that have oddly intimate and special meanings buried deep? Do normal friends give each other this much hope? I hate being led on, you know that. So just stop, really, just stop. You’ve rocked my world for eleven years, and still, I’m afraid. Just… just don’t look at me anymore._

Eddie wanted some kind of balance, stability. He doesn’t like battling his emotions, no, never. But uncertainty soon turned to frustration, which then built to him telling Richie off out of pure anger within himself. Separating from Richie was the last thing he wanted. So when the internal anger took a peek of the edge, it jumped and fell into regret. 

“If you didn’t feel the same way about school and shit, you _literally_ didn’t have to ask in the beginning, you could’ve _literally_ told me,” Richie says, both hot and coldly. Funny. He’d never really been much of either. 

Eddie really didn’t have to bring it up. 

He’s in the sheer wrong here, having had blown the situation out of proportion with the utter excuse of a simmering panic in his blood, and it tastes so bitter now when he chews his bottom lip.

“I should go,”

Richie doesn’t say anything, just puts more weight behind him so he can lean back, to swing his legs so the toe of his shoe scuffs against the road. So Eddie leaves. He doesn’t live very far, but he walks a million miles with words below his feet- haunting, haunting, haunting. He’s so caught up in his own imagination, his own doubts and fears, it slips down his cheeks. Tears in disguise of regret. It feels like stupid teenage angst, and, God, he doesn’t even deserve it. He doesn’t deserve these tears, because he hurt _Richie_ , all because Eddie wants to be the only one who gets to hold Richie by his heart for as long as time will tell, but he doesn’t get to do that, no, of course not, especially after this. Eddie is stubborn and, by all means, indecisive. He knows he only said what he thought Richie wanted to hear. And he only said what he wanted to believe. As the bath overflowed, it only got worse, and maybe the faucet was broken. 

His jaw trembles, and he does not realize it until his lip shakes and lets out a cold, cold breath. He doesn’t want to be sobbing and wailing all over Derry, so he keeps it in his throat as best as he can, just like everything else, but it’s gotten harder and harder as years only become a faded memory behind events. Eddie’s breathing in quick, short breaths, wiping his nose and cheeks with the sleeve of his sweater that he only just now pulled over his hands, bunched at the fist. Much like his hair. Eddie used to do that so often when he was younger, when small things frustrated him. He’d clench his hair in his hands and whine, he doesn’t do that anymore. Just like many things about Eddie Kaspbrak, they were bad habits, and either he grew out of them, or some he just… let go of. 

What if Richie is a bad habit? 

No, no, oh, _fuck_ no. It’s not like he’s his fucking boyfriend. However, the reoccurring _thought_ of Richie being his boyfriend (despite Eddie knowing how goddamn low the chances are, zero to none), is what truly was a horrid, terrible, dreadful, bad habit. 

Feelings are fragile and uncanny, to Eddie. Eddie doesn’t deserve Richie, with his stupid jokes and his stupid laugh, his stupid outfits, and his stupid, messy hair. He doesn’t deserve how… how happy Richie has made Eddie for the past eleven years, because Eddie swears he can’t return that, and he’s afraid of that, too.   
  
  


\---  
  
  


Richie realizes soon, that at least one good thing has to happen if Eddie isn’t involved, one way or another. 

He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, knee bouncing while he taps his thighs rhythmically, staring at the patterns on his socks. It’s November fifth, and he’s _sad_. If anyone knows Richie Tozier, they’d know that, regularly, he does not get sad. Not often, anyway. Communication doesn’t happen to be his forte, which only fuels whatever imbalance. So the energy that was once between them had returned, and it was probably here to stay. He didn’t ask, but he welcomes it with slumped shoulders and a worrying lip. Eddie didn’t ask, so he doesn’t let it in, he lets nothing in. 

Richie is fourteen again, heart in his throat as words sit on his tongue. He builds up all the courage he has, which is more than a few months ago, and leaves his room. 

Went is on the sofa and Maggie just put a movie on, probably an action or romance film. Weird. “Watch a movie with us, Rich, get out of your cave!” Went exclaims, and Richie smiles a little awkwardly. Maggie softens, given he’d been in his room the majority of the day after he came back from school. She scoots to the side, patting on the couch cushion beside her. Richie takes the recliner (surprised Went wasn’t on it). “I actually, um, have- I have something to tell, um, to tell you guys,” he stumbles nervously. 

So they both sit up a little straighter, a different expression on their face. Richie is not looking at them anymore, down at his hands and the calluses on his palms, knee bouncing and making the chair rock slightly. 

“Did you get a girl pregnant?” Went asks, maybe only half-joking. 

Richie shakes his head. He decides again, that at least one good thing has to happen- whether it being a good or bad outcome, it’d be good for _Richie_. 

So he takes in all the air that his lungs can take, and breathes it out. 

“I’m gay. I, um, I- I like, um, I like boys,” 

There are a few seconds of silence, and it’s so loud, it’s nerve-racking. He runs his fingers over his palms, letting his scratch over lines and small dips. He always did that when he was anxious. Richie doesn’t feel like looking up, but Maggie lets out a sigh that almost sounds like a laugh. 

“Well.” Is all Went says, a little strained. Maggie smiles shakily, nods, then says, “ _Richie_.” He looks up, then. Richie remembers Maggie giving him a knowing look, what would be four years ago. It isn’t the same look, but it- it’s _proud_. 

He doesn’t know what happens after you come out, if the next hour is just the people around you seeing you differently, or if it was the same as the last. But Maggie hugs him anyway, tight and protective. Richie cries, tiny tears forming in the corners of his eyes. Maggie’s blouse gets a little wet, but that’s okay. Went… He doesn’t really know how to react- not that his initial reaction or thought _had been_ bad, no. He doesn’t know how surprised he should act- if he should at all. Went goes with a smile. Classic, so. “Proud of you, Richie. Seriously,” he says, patting on Richie’s back. 

Obviously, they take it well, and their demeanor does not change, which is good. Because, yeah, Richie wouldn’t ever think they’d take something like that poorly. He learned and accepted the fact that nothing about him was or would ever be normal. Something about his surroundings remaining the same rang six bells in his heart, five now, maybe. Strike one. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bitch i dunno either


	3. three

It’s been raining almost every day since the sixth of November. It’s glum and gloomy and almost depressing. Richie always loved rainy days, and he loved autumn, too. He’s done wondering why, because he knows now. It’s November ninth, Eddie’s birthday. Richie got him M&M’s and his words for Eddie. As cliche as it is, he thinks about what he’s going to tell Eddie, well, it does not go that way- some things don’t go according to your plan, maybe everyone else’s. 

Clouds have tumbled their way into the stirring darkness that it is, the rain isn’t as heavy as yesterday, but the roads are still slick and so is his throat. Maybe he isn’t even _in_ Derry, not on the roads, maybe the clouds and the sun and angels keep him up because he’s still in his daze where things should be a certain way but they _aren’t_ , and he’s gotta figure out to stop that. For all he knows, Eddie might not even want anything to do with Richie anymore, all because of fucking college. Neither of them can have what they want, not if they keep pleading and begging, but do absolutely nothing. 

Richie’s across the street from Eddie’s house when he gets there, Mrs. K never liked cars in front of her house unless it was her own. So he gets out, hands in the pockets of his jeans and M&M’s left in the car, he’s got one goal and he’s going to get there. Richie knocks on the front door, rocking back and forth on his heels while wind nips his face. Eddie opens the door a few seconds later, an expression that reads confused, but he doesn’t look upset that Richie’s at his door, not at all. 

“Happy birthday,” Richie blurts immediately, he cracks and pops his knuckles in hopes of it not sounding too rushed or forced. 

“Thanks,” Eddie replies in a near mumble, leaning against the door frame. 

They both stand there awkwardly for a while. It’s Eddie dragging his eyes down, tracing the lines of his pajama pants and the way it pools at his ankles... He probably shouldn't be in pajamas this early in the night- six PM, but it's dark, anyway. It’s Richie considering leaving, right then and there. It’s the both of them fighting the urge to get on their hands and knees and cry and plead and beg for this to stop, for everything to be normal again. It’s Eddie wanting to pull Richie inside his house and kiss him square on the mouth, but it’s Eddie wanting to push the door shut. 

“How’s your birthday?” Richie asks, both instinctively and impulsively. And it most certainly isn’t a good question to ask at this time. 

But, Eddie lets out a small laugh. Not in a mocking manner, but the kind of laugh where he _actually_ found something _oddly_ funny and tried to stifle it, and it makes Richie catch a grin, looking down at his shoes in embarrassment. “Pretty great. Y’know, ‘cause you’re here, and all,” he jokes. Richie nods, eyes still down at his shoes. 

A few drops patter down on Richie’s glasses, then the space of his neck and collarbone all because the collar of his shirt is far too stretched. Sonia calls from inside, and it knocks Eddie back, flashing a look to Richie that reads a, _sorry, hold on._

Eddie steps outside a quick conversation later, leaving Richie to do nothing but follow him to the hood of Richie’s car. He crosses his arms in the big, lumpy sweatshirt he has on, sniffling. “You aren’t cold, are you?” Eddie asks, watching Richie lean down next to him and gesturing to his t-shirt. Richie shakes his head, Eddie would just hand Richie back an old sweater he either left or let Eddie borrow. 

“So… um… I’m sorry.” Richie starts off. And it seems like that’d been something Eddie had been dreading to hear or begin to talk about because he clears his throat and rubs his nose. “For acting the way I did, I guess. And I know we don’t have to go to the same school obviously. You’re my best friend, so, like, what the fuck would I do if we aren’t stuck to each other’s hips,” Richie says, chuckles softly. 

Eddie nods understandingly, taking a moment to fiddle with his fingers. “I’m sorry for completely blowing it out of proportion,” Eddie says, almost in agreement. “For being a dick,” Eddie teases, shoving Richie’s shoulder softly. “And I’m sorry for kind of being in love with you.” 

There isn’t much to say other than it being fucking jarring. 

Richie goes a little wide eyes, then immediately feels bad because he assumes Eddie is anticipating some sort of reaction. “Huh?” Richie asks shakily, wiping his glasses from the rainwater. That question could mean a million things: Why are you sorry for ‘ _being in love with me_ ’? Why are you in love with _me_? Why are you lying? 

Eddie laughs a little nervously, “What?” 

“You wanna repeat that, youngin'?” A Voice he hasn't used too often. 

“Ha-ha,” Eddie deadpans, “I’ve been holding that in for, like, six years or something, dumbass, have a reaction.” And Richie giggles, pushing his glasses so they’re on his head and rubs at the little creases the bridge of them made. He smacks a hand over his mouth dramatically, “Oh, my God, Eds, you won’t believe what I just heard!” 

“What’d you hear, Richie?” Eddie goes along with the bit they have going on. 

“Me too!” They both take a moment and fall into laughter, while the rain hits them a little harder. “That was stupid, wasn’t it?” Richie asks, to which Eddie snorts, " _Very_ ,” 

Silence becomes a little more comfortable, something easier to rest in under the pattering of rain hitting the car and the roads surrounding them. The roads they grew up around, the roads that circle and loop them. “I’m getting over it... _you_ , I think,” Eddie says after some time. 

“I’m constantly telling myself, y’know, get over it, get over him… I’m getting there.” He laughs, only to stop when Richie cuts him off. “Wait, wait, wait, wait, are you serious?” Richie asks, “Like, seriously... “ he gestures with his hands. 

Eddie looks at him for a moment or two, then nods. “Oh, okay,” Richie whispers, more to himself, really. He is on cloud-fucking-nine. 

“And you aren’t even _gay_ ,” Eddie adds, putting his face in his hands while his elbows rest on his knees. Richie almost buts in. “I think I just liked the idea of it, y’know?” 

So, Richie will do what he will do. “It’s fine. I mean, I don’t really mind it if… um.” Richie says, catching himself before he lets the sentence complete, because, for some reason, the suspense was always something he scratched his neck at. And he does it now. “ _Yes, Eddie_ , I’m gay. This is so weird,” Richie rubs his eyes and shuffles his damp hair. Eddie shuts his eyes and scrunches up his nose, he hums, “I kinda wanna call you stupid,” 

“Then call me stupid,”

“You, Richie Tozier, are so, so, _so_ stupid and I don’t know why I like you so much,” 

It should be a bigger deal. It really should but it _isn’t_. This is them and they’re dynamic, nothing could ever really change that, as cliche as it sounds. Not vague and silly crush confessions and not college arguments that leave silence and low embers since the second of November. Because they’re _okay_. 

“It might be my absolutely breathtaking good-looks, but, I dunno,” Richie boasts sarcastically, and Eddie shrugs. “Tell me, I gotta know!" Southern Belle, what a classic. Eddie’s still smiling and so is Richie, but Eddie’s gaze isn’t up by Richie’s eyes anymore. 

“Can I kiss you?” Eddie whispers, another secret stolen wish from the world and its wonders. Except, now, it’s out loud. 

Richie’s world stops, for just a moment. He’s up in the stars now, jumping and bouncing. He’s got denial flitting in his eyes before Eddie’s show differently. “You wanna put ‘em to test, or something?” Richie jokes quietly, between silence and stares. He does decide soon, though, nothing is real. Nothing is real if Eddie fucking Kaspbrak, his best friend since the cafeteria lunch table in the first grade, trading fruit snacks for a conversation and a new friend, shares the feeling Richie felt up to his fingertips since he blamed everything on age and puberty. And so Eddie bites back a smile, swiping tiny raindrops off his face. 

The rain gets heavier. 

They meet somewhere in the middle. 

It’s slow and sweet and maybe a little awkward, courtesy of Richie’s glasses. However, it doesn’t last too long. Kissing while it’s raining is a little difficult, nonetheless, and so is while smiling. 

They stop eventually, a few seconds later with bright smiles and wet hair, delicate hands holding delicate jaws. “You’re so weird, stop looking at me like that!” Richie laughs, closing in on himself. 

The two decide soon that it’s raining far too much and it’s far too cold, so they shuffle into Richie’s car. Eddie in the passenger seat and Richie in the driver's seat, they look at each other for a moment, before they’re bursting into laughter. Maybe it’s all kind of unimaginable, and it’s all probably a dream.

“How long have you wanted that?” Richie brings himself to ask, eyes closed for a second. 

“To kiss you?” 

Richie nods, a little dazed at that question. 

“I think it was either seventh or eighth grade. We were walking in, um, downtown and you were doing your random accents and voices- I mean, as if people in Derry _don’t know_ who you are- and we- we were spilling out _laughing_ ,” Eddie says, “I cover my mouth when I laugh, obviously, you know this, but then you told me ‘ _stop, I love your laugh_ ’.” He does a poor impression of Richie, and he takes a minute to roll his eyes at a few years ago, his heart never faltering to reminisce. 

“And it was probably so stupid if you really think about it, because there were a lot of times, trust me,” 

It is one thing to kiss your best friend and have nothing change, and it is another thing to not know what comes next.

* * *

December comes slowly, trudging its way to Derry with many feet of snow trailing behind it and spikey cold ice. It wears clouds and isolation like a blanket, for most people. For the Losers, it’s just an excuse to be with each other constantly. 

It has been well over a month since Richie and Eddie kissed and, just as what had been expected, nothing really changed between them. Because nothing ever really would. They could live in a small studio apartment together- just the two of them as _whatever-_ and it wouldn’t alter anything, they’d still make their quick jokes and playful banter and maybe there’d just be kissing in between. And it doesn’t even sound _too_ bad. Because they've got each other's hearts in their hands- they always have- but they don't know what to do with it. There won't be a big shift. They don't want to be too delicate, because that will prove everything they didn't want to prove; a guilty expression that things _are_ different. They're _not_. 

However, they haven’t completely talked about it- not that they’re under any pressure or obligation to, but it would just be nice to know if it’s anything more than quick and soft and barely-there kisses here and there. They don’t have to be _just friends who kiss sometimes_ , and they don’t have to be _boyfriends_ , either. Because maybe that word is a little scary. They could be Richie and Eddie and that would be the most incredible thing ever. 

A chilly Saturday is when Eddie decides to ask Richie. It’s over the phone, despite everything. It goes like this:

Eddie pushes the numbers, each clicking and clacking from memory. He pulls it to his ear, letting his head rest on the earpiece. It rings a few times before static rises. “Hello, hello, Tozier residence,” comes Went’s voice through the speaker. “Hey, it’s Eddie. Is Richie there?” Went hums what is audibly a yes, and calls for Richie from afar. 

“Spaghetti Man?” Richie asks, and even beneath the old phone’s static, it’s still so purely Richie. “Yeah. Hey,” Eddie replies, “I was going to, um, ask you something.” He scratches the side of his jaw and fiddles with the cord. 

“Is it, like… y’know, important?” 

“Well, I mean it kinda- nevermind. It’s just, like, um, what- uh, what are… what are we?” Eddie scrambles and stumbles, rushing out the last few words. 

Some silence stretches and it doesn’t feel _entirely_ bad. “Should we really talk about this on the phone?” Richie asks, antsy, “Or are you too afraid you’ll kiss me and forget what you’d wanted to ask?” he teases, and Eddie only sputters, “ _Shut up._ ” But Richie sounds just as nervous as Eddie, so that’s promising. 

“I can be over in a few, just gimme a sec to help my dad with something.” 

  
\---  
  


Ten minutes later and Richie is standing outside Eddie’s window. He’d been doing that since middle school, and Eddie always found a way to poke fun. He’s leaned his arms against the window sill, as Eddie had just pushed it up.

“Hey,” 

“Hey.”

Richie scratches his neck, “So, um, what- uh, what did you ask? Kinda forgot,” and he smiles a little crookedly. 

Eddie shifts on his feet. “Like, what are we… If you want to be anything, anyway, I mean, it doesn’t have to be anything if you don’t want it to be… Um, you can come in if you want, you’re probably cold, sorry.” 

Richie blinks, sort of dazed. “Oh,” he says, “Right.” 

And so he swings a leg over the window, entering a little awkwardly considering the space from the window and floor. And his lanky limbs. Anyway. 

They settle on Eddie’s bed comfortably, given the amount of times. A few seconds pass of them in silence, while bits of snow are settling outside. Eddie feels bad for not letting Richie in as soon as he got there. 

“Well, I mean… I don’t think there are any rules that say you can’t date your best friend,” Richie says lightheartedly. “It wouldn’t be easy.” Eddie mumbles. 

“Yeah,” Richie agrees, pushing his glasses up. “Boyfriend doesn’t sound too right, hm?” 

Eddie shakes his head slowly, cautiously. “It could just be us, y’know,” he shrugs his shoulders, then pulls his knees to his chest. “Like it’s always been,” Richie smiles softly. The two of them wind up on their backs, side by side. It’s Richie idly messing with Eddie and his hands, running his finger along the lines on Eddie’s palm. 

“That tickles,” Eddie says, barely above a whisper, barely above the movie playing. “It always did,” Richie replies, and Eddie hums in agreement. That began back in middle school, fresh out of seventh grade and down at the Quarry. The Sun had worn the seven of them down, Richie especially, surprisingly. Bill was still in the water, floating on his back. Eddie had traced patterns of nothing on Richie’s knee, and so Richie traced patterns of nothing on Eddie’s hand. 

But, Richie stops, curling his hand into a fist with Eddie’s. He tries to kiss his knuckles but ends up kissing his own. Eddie laughs, “Dumbass,” 

Richie leaves that night, snuck-out under a moonlit room and window. It's a kiss goodnight and let your lips bruise a purple like the sky when the Sun and the tides collide. It's stupid and cliche and fucking juvenile. ("Kiss me goodnight?" Richie asks perched against the open window and hopeful lips, probably wishing it cancelled out his nervous tone. Eddie thinks he likes this sight, it's funny. So he leans up and pushes his palms on the sill, pressing a soft kiss to Richie's lips. Richie chases after Eddie when he pulls away, and Eddie laughs in the kiss while it's quick and sweet).

\---

The Losers have no idea what’s happening because nothing has really changed. Richie and Eddie just don’t kiss around them, though. They don’t have to prove anything to anyone, anyway. “So,” Richie says as he hops onto Eddie’s bed, the deep grey duvet cold from winter and its natural being. He makes his entrance and greeting extra and enthusiastic, as it always had been.

“You staying here for Christmas and New Years?” Richie asks, and Eddie shuts the door, shrugging his backpack off and into a corner. “Probably. My Aunt Evelyn hasn’t called about it, so, I’d just spend it with you and The Losers.” 

Richie hums considerably, “Just me,” 

It falls quiet after a short moment of sarcasm, and Eddie propping himself up near Richie. He’s picked up a book on Eddie’s bedside table, skimming through the pages. “Bill applied to Colombia, don’t know if he told you,” Eddie says after he switched the TV on. 

“Oh, shit, how do you know?” 

“Through my mom,” Eddie sighs, “Her nose is always in someone’s business, if it’s not my own,” 

“I hope he gets in, he’d do really well in New York,” Richie says.

“Did you read his essay? He’s definitely getting in,” 

“No, I didn’t. They’re all mean to me.” Richie pouts. “Even me?” Eddie asks sarcastically, and Richie replies, “Even you.”

It's like Eddie is every good thing and he's filling up Richie's lungs, not like he minds it anyway. 

* * *

June 16th, 2000, the last day of school; the last day of senior year. It’s a bittersweet thing, having graduated with your childhood best friends, then starting your life somewhere fresh and new. So there’s clapping and shouting and cheering for your friends while the Sun is beating down on you. Richie shoves his glasses up several times, but it’s harder with the sweat lining his nose. When his name is called, he trudges his way up to the stage, and he accepts his diploma with grace and pride, shuffling his shoulders in a little dance as he makes his way down. After they are all called, and after they all receive their diplomas, they say goodbye to twelve years of school, goodbye to The Class of 1999-2000, filled with people who shared different stories, but the same town. 

The seven of them take pictures in the parking lot, with their parents telling them to huddle closer behind their cameras, lifting their diplomas with big smiles. And others are candid and silly, while they stand mid-laugh or Stan fixing Beverly's cap because it was too tilted, or Eddie laughing at Richie complaining because Eddie declined Richie’s pose suggestion. 

They take Mike’s truck to a diner just before outside of Derry. Mike and Bill are the only ones inside the truck, despite it being a three-seater, Stanley didn’t want to be in the middle of them. So, the remaining five slump in the back, with their hair blowing and outfits they’d worn beneath their gowns. And so it is summer, and it’s nice, it’s something they can revel in. They are living once and they are here making the most of it because they’ve got each other- no one or nothing else. The air is dry and heavy, and heavy is their hearts. Most of them are leaving in early August, so the time with each other is limited, but their memories are forever. 

Went used to tell Richie that people may come and go and that no one who is your friend will _actually_ stay your friend until you’re growing old with wrinkly hands. And, sure, Richie’s met people he stopped being friends with after a few months, but, God, do these seven outcasts prove that saying differently. Richie knows these people are forever, these are _his people_ , _his best friends_ , and he knows he’s theirs, too. Three-thousand miles or just a couple hundred, those are just numbers. Richie’s learned many things, like, don’t drink that damn rainwater, don’t drag your feet, don’t mix cleaning chemicals _(“For the love of_ God _, Richard! Those chemicals are strong!”),_ and don’t forget the people who have loved you for years and would probably do it again if they could, Richie knows he would. 

The diner isn’t too empty, and it isn’t, like, packed. They order their basic meals and laugh and choke on soda after Bill did something stupid. “Oh, oh, oh, oh, I love this song,” Richie says into his cup. The speakers are playing something unfamiliar, but of course, Richie knows it. 

“What are you guys doing tomorrow?” Stan asks. 

“Well, Staniel, now that you’ve mentioned it, I will be spending the night at your house,” Richie is the first to respond. 

“Who said?” Ben questions. 

“His lovely momma,” 

“Shut up, Richie,” Eddie says.

“My house!” Richie exclaims abruptly, earning everyone’s attention in the diner. “We’ll party and get our groove on. Bill can bring the booze,”

“I’m n-not bringing booze, d-d-dipshit,” 

“Would your parents let you?” Eddie asks Richie. “Probably,” Richie answers, uncrossing his hands to let them rest on the table, tapping his fingers. “If it’s just you guys, y’know?” 

  
  
\---  
  
  


It’s August 16th, and Bev and Ben have packed their bags, all ready for Chicago. The seven of them are outside, their bags shoved inside Mrs. Hanscom’s car. She’d be driving them down to Portland, and from there, a three-hour flight to Chicago. Beverly puts her hands in her back pockets while Ben shuts the trunk. She’d been a little quieter, maybe it had finally hit her. 

“You two ready?” Mrs. Hanscom calls from the porch, shutting the door and locking it. Ben just nods, lips sewn together. 

Richie is the first to break, crashing into Ben with open arms. It’s a long and tight hug because he’s going to miss them a lot. “Take care of yourself, Rich,” Ben says earnestly, with that same tight-lipped smile that reaches his eyes. He almost stops himself from crying when he hugs Beverly. Keyword: Almost. Her fingers dance on his cheeks, catching the water twinkling his bottom lashes. “You sap! Don’t cry!” She says, pulling him in tighter than before. “I’m not, I’m not,” Richie says and pulls back, swiping at his cheeks quickly. 

And so they leave. 

The remaining five chase the car down the street until their ankles grow weak and their breaths are deep and heavy. They stop right before the Leaving Derry sign, which is funny, they haven’t gone outside of Derry together. 

Stan leaves a week later. 

He goes to Georgia State University. Stan wasn’t much of a crier, sure, he was tough and quick-witted, but he _does_ cry, and he shows the most love to his friends that he can. (“You guys better go down to Atlanta,” Stan had said, “Even if it’s for a weekend. I’m gonna miss you guys,”) He drives twenty hours down to Georgia, and he calls them on his small 1998 Nokia every stop. 

Bill and Mike leave the same day as Richie and Eddie, which is a little ironic. Telling Sonia was weird, she hadn’t reacted the way Eddie would’ve anticipated her to. She sat and took it, but she said things stern and cold. Regardless, he was eighteen, so, technically she couldn’t stop him. 

Bill and Mike take a seven-hour drive down, and Went and Maggie drive Richie and Eddie down to Portland where they’ll take their flight to LA. So the backseat windows are down and they’re waving and screaming like crazy before they split highways. Richie slumps back in his seat, with the windows still down and the sound of cars hushing past them. 

Los Angeles is amazing. So is Chicago, and Atlanta, and so is New York. They’re all so greatly happy, they still have each other. Maybe not physically, but they’ve got holidays and phone calls and pictures. 

And maybe it’s a tragedy. Maybe it’s a blessing. Richie just holds onto Eddie's hand tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whaaaaaa
> 
> this is my [twit](https://twitter.com/teenagerioht) lol bye bye i hate this


End file.
